


Days pass

by Kathleenishereagain



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Airports, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Early Beatles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Character Death, Pre-Relationship, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27610025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathleenishereagain/pseuds/Kathleenishereagain
Summary: Their phone calls were alright, really. John sounded almost perfectly like his loud and boisterous self, the jokes flowed, it was easy and all. But the last time Paul saw him, John’s eyes were red and puffy and he wouldn’t even lift his head off of his Aunt Mimi’s shoulder long enough to look at the casket, and Paul can’t seem to erase that image from his mind.--After an uncharacteristic call for requests, someone suggested to write something with hurt/comfort with like John having a depressive episode and Paul taking care of him and trying to help him, and this is what came up. (thanks again very very much for the suggestion!)
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 17
Kudos: 63





	Days pass

Paul doesn’t know what to do.

Ever since he's come back from Wales with George, he’s been trying to conjure up a good excuse to go visit John at the airport where he works. The way there is expensive though and money doesn’t fall from trees, as his Dad keeps reminding him, so he doesn’t go, but his mind keeps wandering back to it. A lad shouldn’t need an excuse to spend some time with his mate, but he hasn’t seen him since the funeral of his mum, only talked to him on the phone a few times, and he doesn’t know how John would react if he saw him arriving like a flower at the airport – that is, if he managed to get the money to get there at all. Their phone calls were alright, really. John sounded almost perfectly like his loud and boisterous self, the jokes flowed, it was easy and all. But the last time Paul saw him, John’s eyes were red and puffy and he wouldn’t even lift his head off of his Aunt Mimi’s shoulder long enough to look at the casket, and Paul can’t seem to erase that image from his mind. He knows John's probably not alright, that he couldn’t be even if things had not been the way they were. Grief is complicated, Paul is in a good position to know that; it changes people, changes relationships, but it also – and mostly – changes the way people see you. He knows that, too, and he doesn’t want _John_ to believe that about him. To believe that he sees him any differently now from before. They haven’t talked about it on the phone, haven’t talked about anything really, but Paul knows that if he turned up out of the blue at the airport, John would take it as unusual. Because they’ve never… they’ve never talked about stuff like this before, have they? Personal, _really_ personal. Mates don’t get personal like that. It’s awkward.

But they’re not really… they’re not really just mates, anymore. Which makes things even more awkward.

He hadn’t had any time to think about the _accident_ much before his trip, because everything had rushed all at once. One night they were giving each other drunken (well, _tipsy_ , really, but he would not be caught dead admitting that) hand jobs in his bedroom, the next they were recording their first song, and two, or maybe three days later John’s mum was sent flying in the street. It was brutal, and fast, so fast, and Paul had been so shocked – they all had – that he had not had time to reflect about what had been happening just before. But then he went to the Wales, where he’s had _plenty_ of time to think about it, and now… well, now. He doesn’t know what to do.

Strangely enough, it’s Pete Shotton who gives him the solution. Apparently John has asked him to lend him his leather shoes for an emergency (something about “work etiquette” and a “watery accident” – he’s not sure, because Paul’s mind has been a buzzing mist ever since the word “John” fell out of Pete’s lips) but he can’t go to the airport to get them to him because he works too, and naturally, Pete says oh so casually, naturally he thought Paul would be alright with taking them to John. And he is alright with it, really, it’s the perfect excuse to get his Dad to give him the few pounds necessary for the travel, but as he is sitting in the bus with Pete’s shoes nicely set on his lap, he finds his throat dryer than it has ever been in his short life.

It’s not hard to find John, even amidst such a big place. Paul spots him from across the hall in the opened area of the restaurant, his reddish (the boy is fooling himself thinking it is brown) hair almost shining against his crisp white shirt as he talks to a client. He is wearing dark slacks, way too big and too straight for him, and his old brown shoes look indeed like they have been aggressed with several unspecified liquids over the day. Paul sees him going to the back of the restaurant, all serious and professional, and that’s the oddest thing of all: to see him like this, so normal, forcing a casual smile for the clients, like an adult, almost. It’s stupid, but it makes Paul think that losing one’s parent really ages you all at once.

When John gets back to the main room, Paul approaches slowly, hugging the shoes against him in a clearly embarrassing manner. It takes for him to be practically face to face with the lad for John to look up and actually recognize him, and Paul would tease him for being a blind bat without his glasses if his heart wasn’t stuck up in his throat. John freezes – they all do, even the old lady sitting at the table between them – and after several excruciating seconds of silence and stillness, John’s blank, surprised face brutally shifts. It goes too fast for Paul to recognize any of the emotions there. He would be a liar if he said he wanted to know what they were.

“Paul!” John simply says, sending a perfect ‘excuse-me Ma’am’ smile at the lady and stepping away from the table.

Paul follows suit, feeling weirdly like a little kid coming to bother his big brother. _No,_ not _a big broth_ —

“To what should I owe the honour of you leaving the comforting cushions of your home?” John cuts through his thoughts.

His tone is humorous, but there’s a strange note to it, something not quite natural that Paul can’t place. His eyes are boring into Paul’s, his face is smiling but closed off, a vision to which Paul is not used and which quite frankly intimidates him. As if he was back to that first meeting of them, a bit, but somehow worse. He briefly frowns, puzzled for an instant, but quickly his pride pushes the uncalled for shyness away. Maybe it would have been less awkward if the last time they had been staring at each other like that hadn’t been when he had his hand on the other lad’s dick.

“I’m on a mission,” He says lightly, and hands him the shoes. “I was told you were running bare feet and scaring the clients away.”

That gets a small huff out of John, but his smile rings true when he lowers his eyes and takes the shoes from Paul’s hands. Their fingers brush. It’s nothing, but Paul notices.

John looks up, and for a moment they just stand stupidly face to face, staring at each other in silence. It’s not uncomfortable _per say_ , but Paul still finds himself aching to fill it.

“Well, I should leave you to work,” He says with more strength than intended – and even John looks surprised by it. “Wouldn’t want to give your employer another good reason to fire you.”

“I see your trust in me has reached new levels.”

“I know the beast hiding beneath the cheap perfume.”

John laughs then, for real, and the sound is painfully short and hoarse. It’s suddenly obvious to him that John is not alright, not even remotely; he can see it in the thin lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t here before, at how quickly his jaw gets back to its tense posture. Paul’s stomach clenches the tiniest bit at the sight. He childishly wishes he could just make John laugh his grief away, one joke at a time. He is already turning his body away to leave though, feeling out of place, when John tilts his head towards a couple of isolated tables close to the windows.

“I can take a break,” He says in a strangely gentle tone. “Haven’t even had time to smoke since I arrived this morning.”

“What monsters. You should call child services.”

John snorts again, and it’s quieter but it’s still there, the genuine amusement, and Paul feels the small victory burn in his chest. They sit down together at the table, John draws a ciggie out of nowhere and starts calmly smoking. Normally Paul would ask for one too, but his lungs still feel a little tight from his anxious anticipation and he is content to just watch the clumsy curls of smoke John makes, one deliberately nonchalant hand splayed out on the table.

The smoke dissipates and Paul is forced to confront John’s face. His eyes are disinterestedly scanning the airport tarmac and he looks tired, exhausted even. His cheeks are hollower than the last time he’s seen him, and his eyes don’t shine just as much. They seem… snuffed out almost, and the ache in Paul’s stomach grows louder. Maybe it is a weird thing, to miss the mischievous, larger than life glint in your mate’s eyes, but he doesn’t really care at the moment. His frie—his… John is not alright, and he just cannot let that happen without trying to alleviate his pain a little. Even if he knows it won’t work, even if he knows that kind of pain sticks with time and never fades away. He still has to try.

“How are you doing?” He asks, bluntly.

He feels his cheeks heat up instantly from shame, but John is nice enough not to point out how idiotic the question is. He simply finishes his drag, blows some smoke out, and turns to look straight at Paul. It’s almost intimating once again but for different reasons, and this time, Paul doesn’t even think about backing out. John hasn’t even opened his mouth yet but Paul knows he is going to be honest.

“Like shit. Just… days pass. I don’t know.”

Paul nods, because he doesn’t know, either. Or rather, he knows exactly how nothing makes sense, _after_. He leans his elbows on the table in an instinctual reflex to get closer, then pulls them back a little, afraid that John might interpret it as casualty, or worse, lightness. But John’s eyes don’t leave his and it calms Paul enough for his fingers to stop fumbling.

“They still do, even after years,” He simply says.

It’s not comforting, it won’t bring back the laughter in John’s voice, but it’s the truest thing he has learned since his mama passed away. Days still pass. Paul is still here, and so will John be.

John keeps staring at him, and Paul sees how easily it could be unnerving. It even probably would be with anyone else – apart maybe George, who already spends 80% of his time staring at people anyway. But with John, it’s easy. Paul doesn’t know what is going on in his mind, but he sees his feelings, he sees the emotions that long to scream themselves out of him. He knows it’s only the beginning, and he is intimately convinced that John knows that too. That worse days are to come, inevitably, when the treacherous reality finally sets in step by step. But there’ll be better days too. Paul doesn’t say any of it, wouldn't know where to start, how to say the words, but there’s still some light in John’s eyes. It’s still there with Paul, it still exists, and Paul is so relieved to see it, so willing to keep it burning brighter, that he lets his instincts speak for themselves. He suddenly reaches out, his warm and wet fingers brushing John’s surprisingly cold ones, and despite his best efforts to hide it, John startles. He doesn’t take off his hand, though, and Paul tries to calm his wild, screeching loud heart over that. There’s a moment of hanging where Paul’s hand hovers, ready to dive back to its side, but then it settles firmly on John’s and from then on, Paul would not even be able to move it if there was a fire and they all had to evacuate the place. There’s lead flowing in his veins and the warmth of the contact, although it makes his heartbeat skyrocket, also appeases the pain in his stomach. John frowns at their joined hands for a second (Paul hadn’t even noticed he had broken off their intense stare-off) and Paul fears rejection deeper and more intimately than he ever has in his whole life. But then John looks up, and the impossible happens: he turns his hand face up, slowly, and awkwardly squeezes the tips of Paul’s fingers in his. Emboldened, Paul offers him a smile. After one, two, three floating seconds, John smiles back.

It’s small. It’s ridiculously tiny. But it’s there, and Paul knows what to do now.

Days still pass.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's not what you hoped to read, but don't worry, I haven't and won't abandon oowbh. This is precisely an attempt to give me the strength to write again - hopefully it works enough to make me publish the last chapter before 2021 :)


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